


Seize the Opportunity I Saw

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Nudity, Slow Burn, fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg agrees to help Mycroft stop a kidnap plot, and winds up naked in Mycroft's guest bedroom. On his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seize the Opportunity I Saw

**Author's Note:**

> written in less than 24 hours for the Come At Once festival on [Live Journal](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) The prompt was "A Matter of Opportunity"
> 
> Daesh = ISIS, iSIL, whatever the media is currently calling it. My apologies for all errors.  
> Totally unbeta'd. 
> 
> Title comes from Schuyler Defeated from the glorius Hamilton.

“Don’t make me beg, Sherlock.”

As soon as the words left Mycroft’s mouth, he knew he’d made a tactical error. By revealing that he would be willing to beg, he’d granted Sherlock infinite power.

“I won’t make you beg, brother.” In the harsh fluorescent light of Lestrade’s office, Sherlock’s grin looked predatory, sharklike.

Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed; he thanked whatever god people believed in and knew he’d pay Sherlock whatever he wanted. _After making him work for it, of course._ Most men would think a date with a Saudi princess payment enough.

“Because I won’t do it.”

Sherlock smirked at the shock that crossed Mycroft’s face and the almost undetectable lurch as he checked himself from strangling Sherlock. “I’m not accompanying some vapid, vacuous socialite for a night of under-age drinking and carousing and—”

_I must have been delirious when I pinned the success of this on Sherlock._ “She’s not underage. And she’s expressed interest in meeting the ‘intriguing Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.’ She’s quite a fan of your work.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and dismissed Mycroft. John pulled him aside and whispered, pointing his head toward Mycroft.

Mycroft fidgeted uncharacteristically. He’d left his bloody umbrella in the car. Nothing to occupy his hands, which twitched to throttle Sherlock, squeeze the life from his selfish, infantile body. He clasped them behind his back, knowing his knuckles were white with the pressure.

“You okay?” Lestrade asked Mycroft, edging a chair toward him. “Not gonna have a stroke, are you? I know how hard it is not to beat him.” He laughed easily in camaraderie.

“Unfortunately, the success of this stratagem rests on the believability of the Princess being on a date. According to the chatter, a faction of Daesh is working to bring down the King of Saudi Arabia, and will attempt to kidnap the princess. Our inside man set up a meet in a dance club tonight. They think they can use her youthful exuberance. We need that meet to happen.”

“Doctor Watson informs me that I am otherwise occupied this evening, but suggests that you would make an excellent consort.” Sherlock’s grin widened as he winked at John.

John’s jaw dropped as he stepped closer to Sherlock. “You said we wouldn’t tell anyone…”

Mycroft bit his lips and waited a beat before answering. “While she does prefer older men, I’m not her type. She prefers someone dark haired, classically handsome.”

Sherlock snorted. “True. You are neither of those. However, my answer stands. Save Queen and Country through someone else.”

Lestrade slammed his metal desk with both hands. “For Christ’s sake, you two. Will tall, grey, and plain do? I’ll take her just to shut you both the fuck up.”

“There you go, brother. All settled.” Sherlock swept out of Lestrade’s office, leaving John behind to mumble embarrassed excuses before following.

Mycroft collapsed into the chair Lestrade had pushed toward him earlier. He pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to stave off a massive headache that nipped the edges of his peace. “You won’t do. You won’t make a convincing paramour for a 20-year old princess.”

Lestrade sat in his chair and slung his feet up onto his desk. “Fuck you very much, Holmes. It’s me or you. You choose.”

Mycroft’s shoulders caved and his chin dropped to his chest. _At least Lestrade looked rugged, fit, with a cheeky, bad-boy grin._ “Fine. Take the rest of the day to clean up. And get a haircut.”

“God, you really are as big an arse as Sherlock.” Lestrade shook his head and quirked a half-smile. “Text me the details and get the fuck out of my office.” He turned to the computer to pick up where he’d stopped when the pandemonium descended.

Mycroft stood and refocused himself. Shot his cuffs and brushed the wrinkles from his trousers and suit jacket. With a deep breath, he walked toward Lestrade’s door.

“Holmes.” Greg stopped Mycroft before his foot hit the hallway. “Next time, don’t forget your umbrella. It’s like you were naked, and it was kind of creepy.” His good-natured laughter followed Mycroft down the hallway.

Mycroft may have smiled as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

~*~

The texts arrived in a flurry. After the 8th in one minute, Greg regretted using the opening bars of Law & Order: UK as his text tone.

_Clank-Clank._

**_Her car will pick you up at your home at 10pm. Do not make her wait._ **

_Clank-Clank._

**_I’m sending along appropriate clothing._ **

_Clank-Clank._

**_I’m logically assuming you don’t have clothing appropriate for a club._ **

_Clank-Clank._

**_Oh, did I omit the fact that you would be clubbing?_ **

_Clank-Clank_

**_Can you dance?_ **

_Clank-Clank_

**_I cannot teach you by 10p. Youtube it._ **

 

Greg laughed because he couldn’t do anything else. Clubbing with a 20-year old princess would be the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done. Well, after agreeing to do it. That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done.

~*~

The intercom buzzed inside Greg’s small, spartan apartment. He threw on a robe and wiped the remaining shaving cream from his face. He buzzed the delivery man into the building and accepted the garment bag and shoe box with thanks.

Based on Holmes’ style and that the date was with royalty, Lestrade expected something elegant and classic as he unzipped the bag.

“The fuck?” Lestrade grabbed his phone as he tried to make sense of the jeans and white t-shirt on the hangers.

 

_We’re going for 50s hoodlum look? Should I roll a pack of fags in my sleeve?_

 

He tossed his phone onto his bed with a sigh. Jesus. Wasn’t he already too old for this shit?

__

_**Trust me.** _

 

Lestrade dropped the robe and removed the white shirt from the hanger. This wasn’t some 3-for-10-quid shirt. He’d never felt anything this soft in his life. The tag said Dolce & Gabbana cashmere. Ah. Lestrade checked the tag on the inside of the jeans. Tom Ford pure cotton.

_Magnanni_ emblazoned across the shoe box meant nothing to Greg, but based on the other labels, it had to be fashionable and expensive. He popped the top off the box. Black leather Chelsea boots. What the fuck, Holmes. These clothes were not him, not even a little.

With a deep breath, Lestrade pulled the jeans up and over his ass. He zipped them, and instead of feeling squeezed in, they fit as if they’d been tailored to his body. He grabbed the clothes and moved to the loo, where he had a mirror. He turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder. _Shite. How’d they make my arse look good?_

Lestrade drew the cashmere tee over his head and wasn’t surprised when it caressed his body. He dragged his hands down his chest, enjoying the feel. He could only think of the word delicious, but blokes don’t use words like that to describe clothes.

Shoes on, also a perfect fit.

 

_How?_

 

_**For a policeman, you have dreadful locks on your flat. Also, I have an excellent tailor.** _

 

Of course Mycroft Fucking Holmes would break-in to find his sizes, instead of just asking.

 

_**Photo, please.** _

 

Greg cringed. The only thing worse than pictures of him were selfies taken in a bathroom mirror. Since Holmes paid for the clothing that wouldn’t fit anyone else, he could at least do this.

 

**_You look fine. You will fit in at the Shoreditch House._ **

 

**_Trust me._ **

At this point, Greg had no other choice.

 

~*~

  
Mycroft tucked his phone back into his jacket after looking at the photo for the—well, he’d lost count of how many times he’d looked at it. The man was poured into those clothes, every ripple of muscle evident, every curve prominent.

Mycroft had organized this meet down to the last detail, considered every possible change, fault, deviation. He had his youngest operatives stationed around the Shoreditch House, dancing and flirting, but also laser focused on the exits. He stood by the manager’s office, hoping his monochromatic black outfit camouflaged his presence.

Gossip rippled through the club as the crowd swallowed up the newest beautiful person and her gorgeous date. He barely recognized Gregory, painted into the tailored clothing which was nothing like the rumpled suit he wore earlier. Mycroft swallowed as he watched Greg slide his arm around the Princess’ waist and lean in to say something. She returned a brilliant smile and brought her mouth to Gregory’s ear. Slowly, he removed his arm and slipped his hands into his pockets.

Mycroft raise his eyebrow and smiled. That move didn’t go well. Somehow, the thunder in his stomach softened to a low rumble. He pressed the com in his ear. “The Royals have arrived. Keep sharp.”

The plan was for them to mingle and dance, moving toward the loos which were at the back of the club. Intel suggested the kidnappers would pull her out the back door and into a waiting car.

Mycroft ignored Gregory on the dance floor, who moved with the music like he clubbed every weekend. Who danced as close to the Princess as he could while still being respectful. The way the jeans cupped the curve of Greg’s ass and outlined his thick cock.

With a smirk, Mycroft acknowledged that he’d underestimated the room Lestrade required in the front of his trousers.

He ignored the sweat on Gregory’s face. How the white shirt pressed against his back, how the strong muscles at his shoulders tugged the shirt as he raised his arms over his head. The way the hem of the short sleeves restricted his biceps.

Mycroft surreptitiously pushed the growing bulge in his own trousers. _Inconvenient. Should have kept him in the wrinkled suit._

Mycroft watched Greg dance, rolling his hips, thrusting them, grinding them, and Mycroft’s mind was lost, imagining two sweat-soaked bodies, slick against luxurious sheets, sated and waiting for round two.

He barely registered a man who positioned himself in Greg’s way and threw a fast punch when Greg bumped him. While the crowd responded to the fight, only Mycroft’s agents reacted to the Princess, who’d been grabbed by three men and led to the loo hallway.

Ten agents descended on the kidnappers, who were stunned and dragged out the side door. The Princess’ bodyguards forcibly escorted her from the club, lecturing her in their language about the place of women in society. Mycroft heard the words king and father. He would pen a personal note to both Princess Ameera and her father, thanking them for their role in helping the Queen locate new links to dismantling Daesh.

Mycroft returned to the perimeter of the dance floor and found Greg standing at the bar, his head tilted back and holding a towel on his nose. Even from this distance, Mycroft could tell that Greg hadn’t allowed any blood to stain the shirt.

“Thank you for taking excellent care of the shirt.” Mycroft smiled as he sat on the barstool near Greg. “Blood. Dreadfully difficult to remove.”

“This old thing? I just threw it on,” Greg said (which sounded more like dis ood ding?) as he plucked at the front of the shirt. However, his jeans were polka-dotted from the blood.

“And you,” Greg said as he brought his eyes back level to Mycroft’s and removed the towel from his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything except a suit. You’re pretty fit when you wear clothes that flatter you.”

The bleeding had stopped. Mycroft took the towel and gently wiped at the smears on Greg’s freckled cheeks, careful to avoid the bruises. “I could say the same about you, Detective Inspector.”

Greg smiled and batted his eyelashes at Mycroft. “Really. You think I’m fit?”

Mycroft ignored the jibe and placed the damp towel on the bar. “I’m sorry for all of this. I never anticipated someone would start a fight in an establishment of this caliber.”

**_Dat odkay._ **

“We are officially finished here. You are welcome to stay, or I would be happy to drop you at your home.” Mycroft stood up and noticed for the first time that their heights were almost equal. His eyes travelled down Greg’s body, stopping at the outline at the left of his flies, before he realized what he was doing.

Greg gingerly touched his nose, scrunched it and grimaced. “I should probably ice it.”

While the agents processed the kidnappers. Mycroft led Gregory to his Jaguar, guiding him with his hand at the small of Greg’s back. His small finger drifted over the waistband of Greg’s jeans and rested on the rise of his arse.

When Greg provided his address for the driver, he noticed Mycroft’s pursed lips. “What. What are you thinking?”

Mycroft kept his voice light. “You may be concussed. Is there someone at your flat to sit up with you?” He kept his hands splayed on his legs, wondering how they’d feel on Greg’s muscular thighs, pulling him closer, in further.

“No, I live alone.” Greg poked his nose and cheekbones, exploring the extent of the injury. “Divorce finalized a few months ago now.”

Mycroft edged forward and asked the driver to head directly to his home in Belgravia.

Greg whistled at the address. “Minor official, hmm?”

“I’ve invested well.” Mycroft smiled. “This way, I can keep my eye on you.”

Greg waggled his eyebrows and immediately cringed in pain. “Dammit, I forgot about my nose.”

“This is why you need me,” Mycroft joked and then realized what he’d said. He hated blushing, knowing color rose on his cheeks.

“Been a while since I’ve needed anyone.” Greg looked out the side window, avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. “Much rather someone needed me.”

They rode in silence the last few miles to Mycroft’s home. “I’ve texted the housekeeper that we are here, but that we shall not require her assistance.”

Greg raised his eyebrows at _housekeeper,_ and only barely cringed this time.

Mycroft showed Greg to the guest suite. “You may wish to wash your face to fully assess any injuries, or shower if you prefer. I’ll locate some comfortable clothing for you.”

“Mycroft Holmes, you minx.” Greg laughed and watched Mycroft blush again.

“I’ll prepare something for us to eat.” Mycroft left the bedroom, stumbling over his own feet. He righted himself and pretended he wasn’t mortified when Greg chuckled. As he walked down the hall, he heard the shower running.

_How does he fluster me like this? I’ve toppled governments, started wars, and I can’t face a police detective. Idiot._

Mycroft made his way to the kitchen, pulling eggs and vegetables from the refrigerator. He put the kettle on the stove, and diced peppers, onions, and tomatoes for omelets if Greg were hungry, all the while listening for the shower to stop.

Mycroft poured the boiling water into the teapot and packed the loose leaves into the tea ball before submerging it. Nothing better than a well-brewed pot of—

“Where can I find those comfortable clothes?” Greg grinned as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his hair disheveled. Bare chested. Too small towel slung low on his waist. Clutching it with his left fist.

Too small towel.

Mycroft absolutely knew his face was red, that his chest was red at the V of his shirt’s neck. “I—forgot.” He stuttered, incapable of pulling his eyes away.

“I think my nose is fine. A bit sore, but I don’t think broken.” Greg walked toward Mycroft, who stood helpless to move. “What do you think?”

Mycroft stared, the towel also doing an excellent job of showing off Gregory’s—accoutrement. Which showed definite interest. “What do I think?” Mycroft stuttered again. God, he sounded like a pre-pubescent.

“What do you think?”

Greg stood before Mycroft and dropped his towel.

The knife clattered as it hit the chopping board. “You lost your towel.” Brilliant. Just brilliant. He couldn’t breathe—forgot how.

“Someone said he would bring me comfortable clothing. I have none. Can’t wear a towel all night.”

Mycroft gaped at Greg, at his cock hard and flushed, standing away from his body. He couldn’t speak—forgot how.

Greg’s smile faltered. “Gimme something to work with here, Myc. Oh, God, did I misread this?” Quickly, Greg bent over to grab the towel.

“No, stop.” Mycroft breathed out hard before he forgot how again. “You didn’t misread anything. I thought I was being careful not to telegraph my interest.”

“Not in those trousers.” Greg looked directly at Mycroft’s flies and tucked his tongue between his lips.

Mycroft blushed. Again. “I made tea.” _Why wouldn’t his brain cooperate?_

“Not interested in tea. Or food.” Greg cut Mycroft off before he could add anything. “Only you.”

He closed the distance between them, with each step allowing Mycroft the opportunity to flee if he chose.

“I like the way you blush, by the way.” Greg cupped Mycroft’s face in his large, rough hands. His thumbs brushed Mycroft’s cheekbones as he spoke.

Mycroft’s hands hung useless by his sides as he trembled. This was _reckless. Ridiculous_.

Greg brought their lips together, gently at first, then more insistently.

_Remarkable._

Mycroft pulled Greg closer, his hands trailing the bare body until he stopped at Greg’s arse and squeezed.

Greg giggled, but didn’t pull away. “Tickles,” he said against Mycroft’s mouth. He nipped Mycroft’s lower lip and then dragged his tongue over it, before kissing him again and deeper. Kissing the breath out of him.

Kissing all thoughts except one out of him. _Who would have thought it was simply a matter of opportunity_.

Mycroft broke the kiss, stopped and looked at Gregory. At his red, swollen lips. His messy hair that smelled of Mycroft’s shampoo. His eyes, wide and honest, looking back.

This time, Mycroft slid his hand to Greg’s neck and brought their mouths together, controlling the kiss until Greg melted with a small, helpless moan.

Greg traced Mycroft’s side over the fitted shirt, the tight black jeans, and cupped Mycroft’s erection through the trousers. He wrapped his fist around it and stroked. This time, Mycroft moaned and grinded his hips into Greg’s thigh.

“Fuck.” Greg whispered, his voice harsh. “Want you.”

Mycroft nodded as he bit at Greg’s mouth. Kissed it. Attacked it. Laid claim to it and took it. “Not here.”

Greg took his hand and pulled Mycroft to the guest suite. “You are so. fucking. hot.” He grinned at Mycroft and slid down to his knees, the carpet lush under them.

Mycroft mewled as Greg mouthed the front of his trousers, using his teeth to nip Mycroft’s cock. “Gonna swallow you down until I gag, gonna suck every drop when you come down my throat.” He looked up into Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft had never seen eyes that honest before. Not that he had vast experience. But there was something about Greg that Mycroft wanted to please.

Greg teased as he unbuckled Mycroft’s belt and withdrew it from the loops. Dropped it on the floor with a clink of metal. Unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans. “Look at you.” Greg grinned wolfishly. “No pants.”

Mycroft’s cock sprung out as Greg pulled the trousers over his ass and down, tapping Mycroft’s foot to step out of them.

“I haven’t done this before,” Greg admitted. “But I reckon I won’t suck.” He laughed at his own pun, and Mycroft shoved forward, filling Greg’s mouth.

“That will teach you to make bad puns.” Mycroft thought he’d said. However, Greg flicked his tongue, swirled it, lapped with it, and Mycroft could only concentrate on standing.

“Good?” Greg asked as he pulled off, the pop sounding like a firecracker in the dark silence.

Mycroft hmm’d and ran his fingers through Greg’s hair, pulling him back in. He held on, pumping into Greg’s mouth, and Greg let him, moaning around the cock, the noises more filthy and more wonderful as Mycroft held tight.

Mycroft couldn’t remember how to speak, how to say _I’m going t_ o... Instead, he growled and lost his rhythm, hips stuttering as he chased his orgasm. Greg didn’t pull away, continued to suck with hollow cheeks until Mycroft came, filling Greg’s mouth. And when Greg released him to swallow, Mycroft pulled out and striped Greg’s face with his last pulses.

“Jesus fuck.” Mycroft concentrated on standing upright. But he almost toppled when Greg dragged his finger through the come and sucked his finger.

When he could string words together, Mycroft said, “I’ll—”

“Too late.” Greg stood and kissed Mycroft. “Sorry about your carpet.”

Mycroft waved his apology away. “Whatever. It was worth it.”

“Not bad for tall, gray, and plain?” Greg asked, teasing Mycroft.

“Not bad at all. And I take back what I said earlier. I do believe you will make quite a convincing paramour.”


End file.
